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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23059291">Vanilla</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aithilin/pseuds/Aithilin'>Aithilin</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Final Fantasy XV</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Breakfast, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 07:08:04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,314</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23059291</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aithilin/pseuds/Aithilin</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>There is a freedom in Lucis that Ravus had not expected, and an acceptance that he wasn't used to.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Ravus Nox Fleuret/Noctis Lucis Caelum</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>58</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Vanilla</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/JazzRaft/gifts">JazzRaft</a>.</li>



    </ul></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The small comforts in Tenebrae had been so ingrained into his life that Ravus had thought nothing of them until he left. There had been warm and sweet teas— fruit blends for summer, the heady spices for winter— in the afternoon light of his rooms, his desk cluttered with the concerns of a Prince— papers and studies and reports on things that he now knew were inconsequential. He remembered taking the trays of food for granted— the plates of his favourites appeared in his room after dinner and disappeared in the morning, the steaming offerings of breakfasts and dinners laid out in buffet for the family to enjoy— until he was set on the stricter schedules conjured up by Niflheim discipline. He had only dabbled in the concept of cooking when it was demanded in the dark of a Gralean winter, and he could not concentrate with the howling blizzards beating against the Keep. </p>
<p>In Gralea, there were fewer small comforts. His own rooms within the sterile depths of Zegnautus Keep had all the luxuries expected to be afforded to a fostered Crown Prince (though the title was a lie; he was never his mother’s heir), but the concept of comfort was confused with indulgence among the Niflheim nobility. He had taken comfort in a simple soup here, or a favoured dessert imported to the shops strewn across the city. He had taken comfort in the letters from his mother, answering his requests for a recipe here, or a reminder of the seasons in Tenebrae there— the intangible things that reminded him of the home that had sold him off to an Empire in the terms of a peace treaty. The indulgences of the Niflheim nobility— the rich foods, the strong flavours to fight off the cold, the glimmering and glittering wealth set against the sterile whites of the buildings and halls— had turned his stomach when he was old enough to see the iron control the Emperor and his court kept on the people left so far below. </p>
<p>There were times when he had thought his only comfort in that heartless capital had been the little Tenebraean shop a stone’s throw from the Keep. </p>
<p>But in Lucis, the comforts were encouraged. </p>
<p>In Lucis, he was afforded an apartment suite among the royals themselves. His rooms divided to offer more independence that Ravus had thought possible among the upper class of a kingdom. There was still the standard he was used too— the invitations to dinners and breakfasts served along a buffet in warming trays, the royal kitchens tucked away and the fiercely protected domain of a chef considered to be the best in Eos (though that was debatable, Ravus preferred the little tarts and treats from that shop in Gralea)— but there was no obligation set upon him. There was no expectation to spend his morning as an emissary of Niflheim and Tenebrae. There was no expectation on the King to entertain him. </p>
<p>Ravus never had so much freedom. </p>
<p>“You smell like vanilla.”</p>
<p>Not that he would ever thank the Lucian royals for the apartment suite with its own little kitchen. Not that he would publicly praise the Lucian preferences for privacy and individualism-among-a-community. </p>
<p> He could never admit to the smirking Lucian Prince inviting himself into the little kitchen that he liked the simple colours of the rooms, or the way the kitchen was stocked or left bare at his own request, or the way the stainless steel and granite counters beamed in the afternoon sun streaming through the high windows that opened to the endless sky and city outside. </p>
<p>“Move.”</p>
<p>The bowl in his hands was not some delicate ceramic as it would have been in Gralea, ready to shatter like ice in a spring thaw at the slightest misstep. Nor was it the wood of Tenebrae— natural and polished to a perfection no other country in Eos could match— decorated and varnished until it was a work of art better left unused to keep the carvings vivid and sharp around its edge. Instead, this bowl was functional. Smooth and cool in his hands as he moved from one workspace to another in the little kitchen he had been gifted with the rooms. Shifting his batter from one step in the carefully crafted and copied recipe to the next. </p>
<p>He nudged Noctis from his path with his hip and set the bowl down near the stove. It was gentler than he intended, and the little smug victory for his host was left unclaimed between them. </p>
<p>“Can I help?”</p>
<p>“No. Go away.”</p>
<p>Noctis was a peer. A true peer. He was not some servant scrambling to please his whims while remaining out of sight like the more nervous staff in Tenebrae. He was not among the class of bastards who pinned their dreams and roles on family lines in Gralea— a step below the heirs who couldn’t be bothered with the likes of the lower classes. </p>
<p>Noctis was… </p>
<p>“I can actually help, you know.”</p>
<p>Noctis was just Noctis. </p>
<p>“Fine,” Ravus indicated the mess he had left in his wake— the bottle of vanilla extract and the little jar of cinnamon, the mixing bowls and wooden spoon, the sink half full from the meal he made the night before— and set the bowl of batter down before reaching for a pan with his good hand; “you can clean.”</p>
<p>“You’re worse than Iggy.”</p>
<p>“I would take that as a compliment.”</p>
<p>“You would,” but Noctis was smiling as he set to work, clearly not vexed by the lack of dishwasher tucked within the counters. </p>
<p>The noise of the water, of the Crown Prince of Lucis scrubbing dishes, filled the air between them and dulled the soft curse as Ravus braced the bowl against his prosthetic hand. The ladle— just as simple as the bowl, a matching set to the other utensils hanging from the few cupboard hooks and in the drawers— scraped across the side of the bowl, which shifted against the Niflheim-made hand in turn. He almost wished for the Majitek claws of his armoured arm to hold the bowl in place. </p>
<p>A second hand steadied the bowl for him, the damp towel that had dried Noctis’ hands discarded on the counter as he stepped closer to Ravus. As he pressed the bowl into place and held it still to allow Ravus the chance to scoop the batter up. </p>
<p>“I don’t need your help.”</p>
<p>“I know.”</p>
<p>“I’ve done this a thousand times before.”</p>
<p>“So they’ll be good then.”</p>
<p>Noctis’ smile teased at him, taunted him, even as the batter was lifted from the bowl to the pan and set to sizzle on the hot surface. The heat released the vanilla into the air, the cinnamon chasing the soft and gentle scent until the mixture swirled around them. Ravus ignored the smile and the curious eyes watching his movements, he focused on the way the batter spattered and spread across the hot surface. He ignored Noctis at his side with a steadfast resolution to not be distracted by the damnable smile and heat from the Prince that could rival the temptation of the cinnamon. </p>
<p>The ladle was left to fall against the edge of the bowl as Ravus reached for a spatula instead. He glanced from his work when he realized that Noctis had caught the handle. Noctis still smiled at him— that same soft and coaxing smile they had shared the evening before, when the rooms had opened to them in the lazy dark of the Citadel dusk, with the cool neon lights of the city bleeding between the gaps in heavy curtains; when he had admired the same smile in the warmth of the still unmade bed— and waited for his lead.</p>
<p>Ravus let him have control of the batter and ladle. “Just do what I tell you and they will be.”</p>
<p>“Yes, sir.”</p>
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